


this name upon your tongue (is it mine?)

by Marenke



Series: the quaren-fics [26]
Category: Ancient Greek Religion & Lore
Genre: Ascension, Character Death, F/F, Goddesses, Human Sacrifice, Sacrifice, Self-Sacrifice, descriptions of burning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-02
Updated: 2020-06-02
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:46:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24501814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marenke/pseuds/Marenke
Summary: She rises - ashes from ashes, dust to dust? No. Not as much. More akin to a butterfly coming out of its cocoon. It’s different while being the same.
Relationships: Artemis/Iphigenia (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore)
Series: the quaren-fics [26]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1896019
Comments: 2
Kudos: 19





	this name upon your tongue (is it mine?)

She rises - ashes from ashes, dust to dust? No. Not as much. More akin to a butterfly coming out of its cocoon. It’s different while being the same. 

This is how her death and birth begins as:

The fire burns her skin and reveals no muscle, no bone, but maybe it does and her blind eyes can’t see it. The blood that runs through her wounds (too tight ropes that cut her circulation and her skin, making sure she doesn’t escape from the pyre that will be her final resting place; as if she has anywhere to go) sizzles and burns on her veins, impossibly hot. It falls in torrents as the heat burns and sags off her skin, slouching off as if it was a garment being taken off after a day’s work.

It - _hurts._ Iphigenia screams because it’s what she can do, none of the dignity of before. Dignity dies at the pyre, when it’s lit, way before the fumes can make her fade into a pleasant darkness.

It doesn’t come. It never comes. She stays awake, painfully so, grime and soot stinging her eyes and staining her face, tears boiling in her eyes before they can fall and mark rivulets on her skin. Her blood falls, a _drip drop drip drop_ that sounds louder to her damaged ears than the roar of the fire. Her skins crackles, drops from her flesh: muscles exposed, red as blood, red as a sunset, red as she feels.

A pale hand extends amidst the flames, glinting silver in the light of the fire. The hand, stretched to reach for her, touches Iphigenia’s face carefully, so carefully, as if she was sea glass instead of flesh. Maybe she is. It’s hard to think, to have a sense of self, amidst the flames: where did they begin, and where did Iphigenia end?

“Poor thing.” The voice behind the hand murmurs, as if not wanting to be heard, and grabs Iphigenia with both hands, nestling her face there. “Come. Ascend.”

This is how her ascension begins as:

There’s pain in being touched by the cool air. There’s pain in the movements of her expanding muscles, trying to give her lungs more air to breathe - _fresh_ air, this time: big, desperate gulps of air, coughing grey soot and pieces of her lungs onto the ground.

Iphigenia preferred the pyre.

“Breathe,” The goddess says, voice soothing. Her hand feels warm against Iphigenia’s head, and it’s not unpleasant. “, and let power rise within you.”

She wants to reply, but her vocal chords were burst in the heat of the flames. She does allow herself to feel the power, like roots overtaking her body, decomposing her into the barest of matters, bones and soul and decaying flesh. They ground her, sticking her to the ground as they overtake Iphigenia’s battered, burnt half-corpse of a body, as if machinating her into a better form, more well suited for life.

When she rises, there’s a girl dead on the floor, like the exoskeleton of a beetle after a change, and Iphigenia looks at it like one looks at an insect that hasn’t fully died yet: there’s disgust, there’s pity. What they had done to her was -

“Hekate.” Artemis, the goddess that saved her, calls, and Iphigenia looks at her with a frown, train of thought interrupted. 

“My name -” Artemis’ hands touch her face, once more: they still feel pleasantly warm.

“Hekate Iphigenia. It’s a title, my love.” Her lips kiss Iphigenia’s, soft, not for long enough. “Come. Take what is yours. You’re one of us, now.”

Power surges from her hands, unprompted, green flames that do not have heat; it’ll take time to control. Artemis smiles, knowingly, hands on hers. The powers die, but still surge through her veins. Were she to bleed, would it be gold?

“You get used to it.”


End file.
